Beauty
by Moskovy
Summary: Maybe Arthur did not care about beauty, but it did not mean he couldn’t see it. Not when it was this close. - Not exactly a series, more a collection of one-shots that link together in a way. Various shounen-ai pairings.
1. Knowing

**A/N: **No real deep meanings here; a somewhat shallow view on beauty. xD But it may get deeper as I go along. Right now, it's mostly skin-deep. Still, I hope you all enjoy it. 3

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**Beauty**

**Knowing**

Alfred F. Jones knew about beauty.

It wasn't what he was thought about when he woke up that morning though.

Someone had poured blue over the sky that day and dappled it with white and the sun was sitting sort of smugly in full view. The moon had long gone to bed and Alfred was running late for yet another world meeting. The meetings had started to become more and more frequent, though he never really minded; after all, a hero never ran out of advice for his fellow countries, and here, he could finally bestow upon them his infinite wisdom. A burger sat half-eaten in his fingers and in the other hand was a battered leather case, where one could see corners of notes poking out almost comically. He knew that he should have been running, or at least making an effort to pick up his pace, but instead, Alfred continued on his amiable walk, listening idly to the _click_ of his half-polished black shoes that he used for meetings – and meetings only, as he had told Arthur many a time whenever the ex-delinquent suggested a little more finesse in his dress, but who really had the time to bother with minor things like shoes when he had saving the world on his agenda? The looks he received upon his arrival told him that if fashion was the last thing on his mind, at least try waking up on time. Alfred F. Jones was not a morning person, contrary to popular belief – not like Gilbert Weillschmidt who claimed that it wasn't the sun that rose up in the morning, it was him, and the sun only followed his example. Alfred laughed at the concept at first until he saw the albino nation jog past his home with the sun rising slowly up behind him.

The meeting hadn't seemed to have started, and the air was thick with conversation. He could smell the culture and religion and he could already see Arthur Kirkland, better known as England, shouting at Francis Bonnefoy, the anthropomorphic nation of France; a daily occurrence. Green eyes spotted him.

"It's about time you bloody well got here," the Briton spat the words at Alfred's feet and the younger nation gave a broken grin, staring down at his shoes. They gleamed mockingly back up at him.

"I got lost," he lied, the words struggling to escape through his teeth and Arthur snorted. His grin broke a little more.

Neither would say it, nor would they ever bring it up, but it hurt both of them to exchange only handfuls of words everyday; words that let the other know that they were still waiting.

_I'm sorry._

Neither would say it, nor would they ever bring it up, but they were still waiting.

Ludwig had stood up, impossibly blonde hair was slicked back like a helmet and his blue eyes were cold; so cold that Alfred couldn't help but wonder how the warm Feliciano could stand to look into them without flinching. The chatter slowed; a train coming to its last stop and the German spoke like a conductor. Alfred didn't listen; not really. He hardly ever did during the meetings, unless Arthur was speaking and even then he was watching the older man with a wistful sort of observation.

Like the way his hands moved in little dainty gestures to paint a mental picture. Or the way his lashes kissed his pale cheek. Alfred gave himself a mental shake and averted his eyes, only to see the Frenchman give him a knowing wink. He glared. Arthur had finally sat down, ignoring both him and Francis. Alfred returned his gaze to the next nation. A mountain of man was standing, and Alfred knew immediately who it was. Already, a blanket of tension had covered the room, silencing even the ever-talkative Polish nation, Feliks but the man didn't seem to notice. He smiled and Alfred's breath caught with a sharp noise, as if he had just lunged into ice-cold water. How it had escaped him before, the American did not know, but Ivan Braginski was _beautiful_.

Not in the same way Arthur was, but he was beautiful nonetheless. The way the sunlight hit the back of his head in just the right angle made the beige blond of Ivan's hair gave him a shining halo and Alfred could see the soft tufts sway gently as he spoke. His lashes were long and dark and made his violet eyes wider and so blindingly vibrant. The scarf that followed him was wrapped thickly around his words, making his cheeks a lovely shade of red as he addressed the others excitedly. While Arthur's beauty was bittersweet, Ivan's was innocent and childlike though Alfred knew that Ivan's cruelty went beyond inhumane, but still he was masculine and handsome at the same time. Masculine was a hard word for Alfred to stick onto Arthur, though it wasn't to say that he didn't think that the Englishman was handsome, because he very much was. When the personified nation of Russia sat down once more, Alfred thought that the angelic effect would disappear as soon as it had appeared. But he was still glowing.

It was the first time Alfred F. Jones had truly seen Ivan Braginski.

Alfred decided that his hormones were playing games – he knew about beauty, but he had never bothered to notice, so why were his eyes open?


	2. Caring

**A/N: **No real deep meanings here; a somewhat shallow view on beauty. xD But it may get deeper as I go along. Right now, it's mostly skin-deep. Still, I hope you all enjoy it. 3

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**Beauty**

**Caring**

Arthur Kirkland didn't care much about beauty.

Not really.

He knew what it was- he had seen it, felt it, heard, smelled and even indulged himself in it - but his life did not revolve around it. There wasn't much that prompted him to bother making an effort to making something beautiful. If it was practical, and it worked, then it was perfect – it did not need to be beautiful. If something did not look ugly, it did not need to look _beautiful_, it would simply be simple. Arthur Kirkland was not a simple man, of course. He was a complex puzzle that was once taken apart and put together again; he would be completely different, each and every time. He baffled everyone and yet he was still the voice of reason. The sky was a dreary gray with cardboard cut-outs for clouds in London. They hung from a string and the sun decided that it would sleep in for the day. He hardly noticed. What Arthur had been thinking about as he walked through the rain; black umbrella propped up to protect his newly pressed suit, was the meeting. Or rather, what he had seen during the meeting. He had seen those blue eyes – those bright, bright eyes– wide with fascination as they eyed the Russian. It hurt. For as long as Arthur could remember, even during and after their war, Alfred had never looked at another person the same way he looked at the Briton. Arthur knew that Alfred watched him closely, still looked at him longingly and Arthur had to use all his willpower not to do the same. The boy – for was that's what he was. Perhaps not a child, but still a boy – had wanted to talk to him after the meeting but Arthur didn't and so left quickly and as stealthily as he could manage. Now, all he wanted was a drink of something strong enough to knock him out for a good few hours before taking on the world again.

Before he started caring again.

His foot slipped and he stepped into a puddle. He cursed and shook his foot irritably, spraying droplets. The rain continued to pour and Arthur wondered whether it would ever stop. Thankfully he could see a pub coming into his view. It wasn't like the newer ones that were popping up suddenly; no, this club was local and authentic – and probably older than America.

America.

He was the reason Arthur wanted to go and lose himself.

No, not America – Alfred.

Alfred had been the reason for a lot things Arthur had done, and perhaps he was the reason for what was to happen next; something Arthur could or would not have foreseen. The pub was just a hundred metres away now. He picked up his pace, wet shoes narrowly missing puddles then stopped suddenly. Something was blocking his was way – _someone_ was standing before him; shivering and drenched, much like his sock. At first, Arthur had only seen the blond hair and his heart skipped a beat. Then he saw that it was not who he had thought it was. _His_ hair was a dirty blond and much shorter and _his_ eyes were wide; inquisitive and blue like the sky. This man had hair like gold that flowed over this shoulder like silk strands and his eyes were half-lidded and clouded; more the ocean than the sky. The ocean found the forest gaze of his own and the man brightened considerably, in spite of his rather miserable appearance.

"L'Angleterre!" he cried.

A step forward.

A step backward.

"What are you doing here, you frog?"

The Frenchman gave a shrug, his smile drooping slightly at the less than warming welcome. Arthur took in the figure before him; his ridiculously fashionable clothes clung to his person, outlining the structure that was Francis Bonnefoy. The rain had soaked his hair thoroughly, tangling the strands –not unattractively so, instead accenting his strong jaw, and the lilting pipeline lips that looked so –

Arthur stopped himself. But how could he ignore the way the drop of water trailed from his forehead down to the tip of his nose that blended perfectly into his face? Those impossibly long lashes fluttered and so did the Briton.

"I just wanted to see if you were alright. You left the meeting very early," Francis tugged his coat closer around him and Arthur's grip tightened around the umbrella. For some reason, he did not laugh at the shivering man.

"I always leave meetings early," His response was dry despite the weather.

Francis clucked his tongue and ignored the irritated look. "But mon amour-"

"Don't call me that."

"-You've never left _that_ early." Francis took another step forward and this time, Arthur did not move. "What's wrong?" Arthur laughed bitterly and shook his head. This time it was the Frenchman who looked irritated. He grabbed Arthur's arm and the two nations stood in silence; staring up, staring down. They had known each other for too long. Once upon a century, they had fallen in love – and they knew each other too well. For Arthur, Francis was a hand print on his heart, but he could no longer find it in himself, the one thing that once had him hooked hopelessly onto the other man. Francis smiled sadly at him and removed his hand.

They both knew the answer to the Frenchman's question.

Suddenly, Arthur was against the wall, and the umbrella was on the ground; forgotten. The rain crashed freely unto the nations.

Hands in hair.

Mouth on mouth.

Heart against heart.

Maybe Arthur did not care about beauty, but it did not mean he couldn't see it.

Not when it was this close.


	3. Being

**A/N: **No real deep meanings here; a somewhat shallow view on beauty. xD But it may get deeper as I go along. Right now, it's mostly skin-deep. Still, I hope you all enjoy it. 3

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**Beauty**

**Being**

Francis Bonnefoy _was_ beauty.

_Is _beauty.

It was the same difference to him. Really, no one bothered to disagree with him; after all, France was the nation of love, and love was beautiful. Simple logic, and yet Arthur Kirkland seemed to deny it on every turn. Ah, Arthur – was it really surprising to say that Francis was still in love with him? The long, cruel centuries had not let him lose the need to be with the Briton, but Arthur had lost the need, the wanting. No, not lost – it had been given to someone else. The Frenchman winced. No matter who he slept around with, he could not seem to give his love, his beauty, his _being_ to anyone else but Arthur. It was foolish and painful and bittersweet whenever he saw the shorter man. When Francis had gone to visit him earlier that day, he had been so excruciatingly frightened; not of the Briton, but of what he would say to him. Francis knew what was going on, he always did. He knew what had been bothering the shorter man and Francis did not want to face it, but he never could leave things alone, could he?

The weather had changed drastically since he escaped England – Arthur had given him spare clothing, or rather his old clothing from when he used to come over Arthur's home. It was surprisingly pleasant to find that after many years, they fit him perfectly. He had left Arthur sleeping soundly on his bed, warm sheets wrapped around his figure tightly and mouth slightly open as he grumbled in his sleep; he didn't even stir as Francis slipped out. Francis frowned upwards; the sky was darker than it was supposed to be – it was actually only the middle of the day, but it seemed the rain made Arthur lethargic. It should have been bright blue skies in France though; despite cooling weather. Yet the sky was a navy blue shade, only beginning to be interrupted by sluggish orange and red rays; a sun rising. Francis stopped and looked at his surroundings for the first time since leaving Arthur.

Had he really just walked all the way to –

Francis scratched his chin for a moment. He knew this place, and he knew exactly who lived here; someone close...Francis clicked his fingers and let out a throaty laugh. It was Matthew, of course – or rather, _Matthieu_. How could he forget Matthew Williams? He had been his colony and he had taken care of him, however short that time was. Francis shook his head in disbelief at his neglecting of the poor boy and began to walk; footsteps up to mid-calf staining the white expanse. Matthew's house was much larger than Francis remembered – it had been a long time since his last visit and Francis almost felt abashed to knock on the oak doors. But knock his did.

There was a creak and a noise of surprise from a boy with the same silk hair as Francis. While Francis was the ocean and its shore, Matthew Williams was the violet-blue and gold of the aurora borealis.

One offered a polite smile and the other gave a shaky laugh.

Then a greeting and some quick ushering into a warm setting.

Francis glanced around, mildly interested. Despite the size of the house, it was sparsely decorated; few photos here and there and an occasional vase of flowers. Matthew took his coat and beamed, boyish yet effeminate face glowing wonderfully fair like the snow outside – he was not used to visitors save for Ivan's frequent offer to become one with him and Alfred's dutiful big brother routine.

"Please," the nation of Canada murmured softly. "Take a seat – I'll go make us some tea."

"Polite as ever, I see, mon _Matthieu,"_ Francis smiled and obediently sunk into a cosy arm chair. "I've taught you well." The polar bear, Kuma-something was staring intently at him before uttering a quizzical: "Who?" and shuffling away. Francis blinked. Matthew peered in from the kitchen, lovely mauve eyes wide. "Pardon?"

Francis opened his mouth, and the wrong words fell out. "Have you and Alfred been getting along lately?"

Matthew's smile faded, though only a little and he let out a breathy laugh. "We've been getting along pretty well." A pause. "He's still upset about Arthur."

"Of course," Francis nodded slowly. "As Arthur is still upset about Alfred."

"You spoke to him?"

Another nod.

Another laugh.

Francis could see it then, Matthew's heart. It was sliding out his chest, dribbling onto the floor and then shattering. Or perhaps they were tears. The older man could not tell.

"I want to be there for him, Francis," the words were whispered. Nothing but wind. "But to _really_ be there for him. Always. Not only because I'm his brother. I don't want it to be an obligation."

"I understand." And he did. Francis understood all too well when he held Arthur in the rain.

Maybe that's why he held Matthew's – _his Matthieu's_ – fragile frame now.

He would be there for him, like he had been once a long time ago.

This was not an obligation; this was what Francis wanted and this was what Matthew needed, and what Alfred and Arthur lacked.

Francis Bonnefoy _was _beauty.

_Is_ beauty.

It was the same difference to him.

But Matthew Williams was something beautiful.


	4. Seeking

**A/N: ** I'm not really happy with this one though. ;A; Also, I'm sure what couple to do next - suggestions please? Any couple at all. 3 I _might_ do Lithuania and Poland next unless a more preferable request comes up. .3.

Reviews are much love and appreciated. :'D

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**Beauty**

**Seeking**

Ivan Braginski sought beauty.

Alfred F. Jones wasn't exactly what he was looking for.

In fact, what Ivan had his eye on was someone completely opposite of the aforementioned nation. Toris Lorinaitis had a tender beauty, with mild green eyes – much different from Komrade England's, whose eyes were a forest on fire – and light brown hair that brushed his shoulders like a whisper. But what Ivan loved about Toris' beauty was his wonderfully expressive face. He could never hide anything from Ivan, not his thoughts nor his emotion, and the sheer terror that sculpted itself on to his features was deliciously beautiful. Yet it was Alfred F. Jones who managed to dig deep like a thorn and latch himself onto the heart that not even Ivan knew was there.

It happened on a day where the sky was painted blue and white and where the sun sat smugly. It was the day that Alfred saw Ivan and the day Ivan found Alfred.

The Russian had managed to escape the meeting, and when he finally did, one did not need to read minds to tell that the man was _not_ happy. If truth be told Ivan Braginsky was ready to strangle the nations foolish enough to obstruct him while on his way to pursue the Lithuanian. He had ended up losing sight of the other nation and now Ivan was standing just in front of the looming conference building that seemed to mock him by throwing a dark shadow over the dark nation. He was alone.

Again.

Ivan laughed bitterly and was surprised to hear an echo – until he heard a choke that was more a sob. He turned slowly; curiously. So he wasn't alone. He saw the dirty gold first; a field of swaying wheat. Then the sky. For some reason, Ivan couldn't breathe. Alfred was dragging footsteps from the bathroom and muttering profanities under a sordid breath.

"Ah – Komrade America," Ivan gave a small smile; the air slowly began to grow thick with the unexplainable phenomenon of a literal death aura. Alfred did not notice.

"Oh look; commie."

"Are you drunk?"

Alfred looked at him sharply. "No. I'm not, actually." Then: "I will be later."

Ivan's smile grew in one corner and tilted his head, questioning. Alfred just let out a harsh bark that was supposed to be a laugh and began to trudge away. Ivan watched him for a moment before finally falling into step with the other man. Alfred didn't even look at him.

"Something is wrong. You are never down," Ivan stated matter-of-factly. Alfred did not turn to look at him, but Ivan could see the shine in his eyes that could only be one thing. "Are you crying?"

"You don't know anything," Alfred snapped. He reached under his glasses and touched the wetness, staring at his fingers as if disbelievingly. "And no, I'm not crying. It was...It was the meeting room. It was just so stuffy and full of dust. Can't find anyone to clean anything anymore." This time, Alfred turned to Ivan and grinned. Ivan smiled back, just as forced and just as painful. It hurt them both; Ivan could feel, to smile when you are out of practice.

"Besides," Alfred added after a prolonged silence. "Heroes never cry."

"Of course not," Ivan agreed, still smiling amiably. "It had absolutely nothing to do with Komrade England."

"I-" There. Ivan let his smile slide into a triumphant smirk as Alfred shook his head vigorously. He grumbled again, shooting an icy look at the Russian man who shrugged innocently. "Why am I even talking to you? Everyone knows Commies are trying to brainwash me...Can't you just leave me alone?"

"Alone?" Hollow laughter filled the air. "You and I – we're always alone. I am right, da?"

"What's it to you then?" Alfred asked, exasperated.

Ivan snorted, earning himself another glare that he dismissed with a giant hand. "My curiosity is curiosity. It does not have to mean anything to me."

"You wouldn't understand anyway Ivan," Alfred ran a hand through his hair and suddenly, he looked so very much older; like the man he was not quite. Ivan stared. Suddenly, he looked so very _beautiful_ and Ivan saw the sun that he loved in the one person he hated; he saw what he sought.

"How could I not understand? Have you any idea how many centuries I have on my ha-...You called me Ivan."

A pause, then an awkward laugh. "Yeah I did, didn't I?"

"You've never called me Ivan," the older man declared. "I didn't think you even knew my name."

"Bull. We're allies," Alfred replied drily and stopped abruptly, leaning heavily against a brick wall and Ivan stopped in front of him.

"Komrade France and I are allies; I am willing to bet that he does not know my name," Ivan countered and folded his arms over his chest, pouting. Alfred stared then shrugged.

"Well, I dunno about France," Alfred straightened, looking the Russian in the eye and Ivan wondered if it was a challenge. Neither blinked. "But we've been through some tough times together-"

"Tough for you," Ivan interjected with an innocent sneer. Alfred ignored the jibe.

"– and besides, what kind of hero would I be if I didn't know my allies' names?" He folded his arms firmly over his chest as if to settle the case. The two stood across from each other stubbornly.

"A hero," Ivan nodded wisely. "Komrade England looked upset about something when he left today, da? Why don't you be hero and check up on him?"

Alfred winced. "He can take care of himself."

"I suppose," the man shrugged and tightened the scarf around his neck nonchalantly. "Komrade France went after him anyway."

"...Oh."

He sounded like a child to Ivan then, a child who missed out on something he had waited so long for. He sounded broken and Ivan suddenly wanted to fix him. He wanted to see the beauty that had been shattered. When Ivan awoke with warmth on his chest and a breath on his neck, he knew that he did not have to look any further for the beauty that he had been seeking all along.


	5. Yearning

**A/N: **This one, surprisingly enough, doesn't have any pairings except for hints of RussUS from the previous chapter. But instead, this chapter is dedicated to Belarus, who is a pretty awesome (and scary) character in the series, and while I love how funny her obsession with Ivan, I wanted to look at it at a more serious way. Hopefully, I've done her some justice. xD

Never fear though, fellow fangirls, the next chapter will be **Lithuania and Poland**, hurhurhurhur. LIEKOMGRITE? //shot

ALSO, I would like to thank everyone who have reviewed/commented/story-alert'd this story - it means a lot to me since this is the first time I've ever written anything other than Germancest (who is my OTP, so if you've written any GermanyxPrussia fics, tell me. :D) HOPE YOU ENJOY THIS CHAPTER, MY DEARS.

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**Beauty**

**Yearning**

Natashya Alfroskaya yearned for beauty.

Oh, she was beautiful she knew; not even Francis Bonnefoy would deny that.

But Ivan Braginsky, her precious brother, was who she wanted; who she longed to have. Many times, she remembered, he would tell her that he loved her, that he cared for her. Many times – he would remember – she would tell him that she loved him, that she cared for him. So why would he not have her? Though as she loved him, she hated him in a way – and in a way, she hated herself for it. Natashya hated him for not loving her after everything she had done for him. She had devoted her life to him, her will, her dignity, her being.

He repaid her by bring home that foolish sky-eyed nation home.

He didn't even look at her twice.

Natashya looked outside from her seat on the antique couch, legs crossed primly and the hands folded on her lap. The couch; it did not have the same musty smell that most old things did, but instead it smelled like vodka, tears and something that was purely Ivan.

The tears were hers.

Outside, the sky was the same colour as her heart.

A noise to her right made her eyes slide towards the staircase where heavy steps could be heard descending. She watched carefully until the figure was at the foot of the stairs and she almost let out a sigh of relief. If it had been Alfred, it would have been awfully awkward, but thankfully it was her precious brother who was looking at her as if seeing her for the first time, his scarf still billowing around his figure. Her heart darkened a little more.

"Good morning brother," she said silkily and stood gracefully, watching with sick pleasure the hint of wariness that suddenly bloomed across his face. "Did you have a good night?"

The wariness became a little stronger and Ivan attempted a half-smile. She knew what he was thinking but she said nothing. He was so, so beautiful, but not in the same way that Alfred had seen. No, she saw a little more than those amethyst eyes and flawless skin that was so much like the Siberian snow. She saw what the other nations could not. Ivan made to move, edging around her as if she were dangerous – but she would never harm him, didn't he know? – And walked stiffly to the kitchen, bare feet padding against the tiled floors. Natashya watched him for a moment as he disappeared around a corner and then she began to follow. _Brother, brother – can't you see that I see you for so much more than the idiot asleep upstairs? The one who you gave your love to?_

America – Alfred F. Jones. He could never see Ivan the same was Natashya could, not ever. Ivan was too complicated for him. He could never see the beauty that was Ivan Braginsky. Natashya blinked, realizing that they were in the kitchen, the kettle's shrill scream ringing in her ears. Her brother was watching her from the corner of his eye.

"Natashya, are you alright?"

"Of course brother," she answered automatically. She would never let her brother worry, because she knew he did, especially about her and her older sister. That was part of Ivan's beauty – he cared, and when he cared he cared with all that he had and it was dear and valued to him like nothing else was. As Natashya watched her brother prepare breakfast, Natashya couldn't help but list all those wonderful traits that only she truly loved.

Like the raw power that the others feared.

Like the innocence and sweetness that flowed from him.

Like the cruelty that no one could match.

She shivered and in an instant, Ivan was standing behind her, arms around her slight figure and warming her easily. Natashya gave a sigh that sounded like a woeful breath – only for now, she knew, that his fear of her would be forgotten. "Are you cold, my dear sister?"

"Brother..."

"Hey, Ivan-"

The two turned at the same time to the entrance of the kitchen were a certain blond was scratching his head sleepily. His eyes widened as he came to focus on Natashya.

"Oh, g'morning Natashya," Even he looked scared.

She opened her mouth to reply, but then her throat closed and her breathing grew laboured. Already her brother had let go of her. Her heart sunk painfully and the tears pricked her eyes like tiny cruel needles.

Natashya Alfroskaya yearned for beauty.

Ivan Braginsky was that beauty.

As she beheld the image of the two men, Natashya wondered.

Was it she that was the real fool?


End file.
